The Last Honest Outlaw

Chapter One

Denver, Colorado

1878

Rozalie Matthews proudly extended the newspaper article that she had thoroughly researched and carefully proofread to her father, owner and editor of the Daily Chronicle. Read this over and see what you think, she requested.

Charles glanced up from setting type and frowned curiously. What is it?

After I finished writing the obituaries and society pages you assigned to me, she explained, wrinkling her nose distastefully, I felt compelled to investigate the details of Albert Thompson’s murder. She pointed to the third paragraph of her article. I included the description of the accused man that three eyewitnesses described to me.

Without bothering to read the story, her father handed it back to her. I don’t want you involved with this sort of investigation, Roz. We have discussed this several times.

But I feel this is my calling, Roz insisted, trying to control her frustration. I believe that I’m at my best, journalistically speaking, when interviewing witnesses and—

Her father flung up his hand to forestall her. Your time and efforts would be better spent making arrangements for your wedding to Lieutenant Harper. He came by this morning to ask for your hand and I gave my permission.

Roz’s temper hit its flash point in one second flat. John Harper is barely more than an acquaintance! I don’t even like the man all that much. I got the distinct impression that his true interest in me is my ability to open doors for him into society. He badgers me constantly for introductions to the most prominent members of the community and then he proceeds to butter them up.

When her father shrugged off her comments as inconsequential, another wave of frustration flooded through her. "How could you possibly think I want to spend the rest of my life with Harper when I only tolerate him as an escort to the parties you insist I attend so I can write my columns for the society page? The lieutenant cannot have my hand or anything else!" she declared adamantly.

His blond brows flattened over his pale green eyes. Now you listen to me, daughter. You are twenty years old and it’s high time you settled into a normal life.

Normal for complacent, unassertive females, you mean, Roz muttered resentfully. Surely you realize by now that I have greater aspirations than finding a husband. I want to launch my career as a journalist.

You won’t have any hope of a career if you don’t wed the lieutenant, her father countered. Your mother plans to marry you off to that pompous dandy that she handpicked for you. You’ll be stuck back East permanently.

Roz reared back when her father’s booming voice ricocheted off the office walls. Her gaze swung to her corner desk. You read Mother’s letter? she said accusingly.

He scowled and busied his hands with arranging the type on the manual printing press.

You know I have no interest in going back East, Roz reminded him. I didn’t want to be dragged to Philadelphia to live with my maternal grandparents six years ago when you and Mother decided that you got along better with a half a continent between you, either.

No matter how often Roz had begged to return to Denver—the only place that felt like home—her mother had denied her requests. Sophia Matthews had been determined that Roz make all the proper social connections and attend a private finishing school. Roz had been miserable and her life had seemed dull and meaningless. Not to mention how much she had missed her father when her parents separated.

At the moment, however, she was having trouble remembering how fond she was of him. Suddenly, he had become as demanding as her mother.

Roz had finally convinced her mother to allow her an extended stay with her father two years ago and she had no intention of returning to Pennsylvania. She refused to be sucked back into the restrictive confines placed on aristocratic women in Eastern society. Denver provided the freedom and opportunities she craved, and she was not giving that up.

Roz was ready to break free of the unreasonable decrees of her parents, who always seemed to be at cross-purposes where she was concerned. For years Roz had held herself personally responsible for her parents’ separation. She had carried a burden of guilt until she had matured enough to realize that she had nothing to do with Charles and Sophia’s differences of opinions and conflicts of interests.

She was tired of someone else making all her decisions for her, and her parents’ rocky marriage was reason enough to avoid the pitfalls of wedlock. This was her life, after all. She was not going to live it according to the dictates of her parents who used her as a pawn to retaliate against each other—and left her floundering in the middle.

That woman is making sure you return to the East by arranging your wedding, her father said, breaking into her thoughts. She deprived me of the chance to watch you grow up. I want you here with me permanently. If you marry Lieutenant Harper, that scheming mother of yours can’t uproot you and repot you in Philadelphia soil.

Roz positioned herself in front of her father, demanding his undivided attention. Is that what this attempt to marry me off to John Harper boils down to, Papa? she asked pointedly. Do you want the exact opposite for me that Mother wants, just to irritate her?

Her father clamped his mouth shut, refusing to reply.

I’ve been caught in your tug-of-war for years. Mother constantly tries to influence my opinion of you and you try to influence my opinion of her. I’m tired of being caught in the middle, Roz burst out in exasperation.

And furthermore, I am not marrying anyone, just to please you or Mother, she told him in no uncertain terms. All I want is a career in journalism. If you won’t print my story then I will march myself over to one of the rival newspaper offices and apply for a job. I will also tell Judge Milner that you are being difficult and he will be here in a flash to take my side the way he usually does!

Judge Milner was her father’s longtime friend who, having no children of his own, had declared himself Roz’s honorary uncle. She had confided her frustrations with her parents to him over the years, and the judge had been her champion on several occasions. No doubt he would come to her defense again.

Charles scowled at Roz’s threats and wagged his finger at her. Don’t you dare use the kind of tactics to get even with me that your mother is famous for!

His voice thundered, but Roz didn’t so much as flinch. She was as aggravated as her father was. She met his gaze head-on and said, "I am declaring my independence here and now. I intend to have the final say in decisions that affect my life. I do not intend to marry that stuffy lawyer Mother picked out for me and I won’t marry the pretentious lieutenant you picked out for me, either. In fact, I’m not sure I want to marry—ever. I just want to be my own person and make my own choices for once in my life!"

Wheeling around, Roz stamped over to her desk to snatch up the letter from her mother. She ripped it to shreds in symbolic defiance then stared meaningfully at her father. Wedding engagements are not important to me, but this article is, Papa. Albert Thompson’s daughter, as you well know, is my dearest friend in Denver. I want to see Albert’s murderer captured and punished. Writing the obituary is not enough. He was a prestigious hotel owner and leading citizen and I intend to keep his name in print and on the mind of your subscribers until the case is solved. Surely someone else in this town sees the need to report the details of Albert’s demise!

"Someone should, but not you. Damn it, girl, where are you going? And it better not be to one of my rivals…Rozalie Beth Matthews, get back here this instant!" her father called out as she strode toward the door.

Roz didn’t break stride, just hurried onto the boardwalk to grab the reins to her horse. She was so frustrated that she wanted to scream. She slung her leg over the saddle to ride astride and trotted the horse around the corner, then down the alley before her father could determine which direction she was going.

She passed her father’s two-story brick home that sat two miles west of town—and she kept right on riding. She needed to regain her composure, and galloping at breakneck speed, with the wind in her face, seemed the only cure for the jumble of emotions that hounded her.

When Roz noticed two riders approaching, she veered off the road and headed toward the river. The last thing she wanted was to encounter the rougher elements of Denver society and fend off attack. She simply wanted to be left alone with her thoughts.

Roz dismounted from her winded steed and ambled along the river’s edge. The setting sun reflected off the water, nearly blinding her. She whirled around to pace back in the direction she had come and muttered several oaths to vent her annoyance at being denied the chance to prove herself in her chosen career.

She felt as if her decisions and choices had never been her own and she wanted to make something of herself. She needed to be reassured of who and what she was. There were times when she wished she had been born a man! She had half a mind to pack her belongings and take the stagecoach west—all the way to the Pacific.

Perhaps newspaper editors in San Francisco weren’t averse to hiring a female reporter.

Despite her inner turmoil, Roz squared her shoulders and inhaled a fortifying breath. She was going to make something of herself, woman or not, she vowed resolutely. She wasn’t going to acquiesce to her mother’s decree to return East and she wasn’t going to agree to her father’s demand, either. But she was going to remain in Denver because that was exactly where she wanted to be.

She glanced westward to admire the grandeur of the mountains. This mile-high city bustled with prospectors, businessmen, cowboys, ranchers, gamblers and various shysters. The community offered the kind of diversion, adventure and challenge that Roz craved—and wanted to be a part of. Here she felt alive.

Although she had been educated in Philadelphia, at her mother’s insistence, Denver was truly where her heart was—here on the last frontier. Most Easterners and foreigners were fascinated with the West. This was the place where life was what you made of it, and Roz had no interest in adhering to the restrictions women encountered in the East when they dared to be different.

Rozalie Matthews was going to be her own woman, with her own identity. She longed to be a journalist who tackled the gritty stories, not reported on the social activities of the nouveau riche who had made their fortunes by investing in the gold and silver industry.

Roz was not backing down on this matter when she returned to town to confront her father again.

The thud of hooves pounding on the road jostled Roz back to the present. She grabbed the horse’s reins and walked toward the piers beneath the wooden bridge so she wouldn’t be seen or disturbed.

After the rider passed by, Roz intended to return home to continue her discussion with her father—with a bit more diplomacy than she had used at the office. Charles Matthews was usually a sensible man—unless her mother got him riled up. Roz would sit him down and make him understand that she had always wanted to follow in his footsteps and pursue a career in journalism. She didn’t need to marry Lieutenant Harper to do that.

When the sound of clattering hooves on the bridge startled her horse, Roz reached out to soothe the jittery animal. The last thing she wanted was for her mount to break and run and force her to hike home after dark.

You, there! Hold up! I want to talk to you!

Roz frowned curiously when a muffled male voice mingled with the sound of hoofbeats. Apparently another rider had approached—from which direction she couldn’t say because she couldn’t see who was on the bridge above her. More hoofbeats resounded like thunder on the bridge. She flinched when she heard a gunshot explode overhead.

A second gunshot rang out, followed by an agonized howl. A third gunshot cracked the sudden silence and Roz predicted a duel had broken out above her. She quickly tethered her skittish horse then scurried away from the underside of the bridge to see what had happened to the two combatants.

Roz swallowed a shriek of alarm when she saw a man topple from his horse and plunge into the river. To her stunned disbelief she saw the second man—who was identically dressed, right down to his moccasins and doehide leggings—keel off the bridge and land with a splash.

Roz froze to the spot when it dawned on her that both men fit the description of the outlaw accused of killing Albert Thompson—she should know since she had heard the desperado described three times by eyewitnesses. She watched in amazement as both men, garbed in buckskin breeches and blue linen shirts, floated facedown on the river. Two similar sombreros drifted downstream with the swift-moving current.

Roz scampered along the river’s edge, wondering what she should do. The fast current was propelling both men downstream and neither one was close enough for her to latch onto. If she raced off to summon assistance she couldn’t predict for certain where the men might end up. And in the gathering darkness she wasn’t sure how long she would be able to keep an eye on the men.

Glancing over her shoulder, hoping someone would miraculously arrive on the scene so she wouldn’t have to go for help, Roz scanned the hilly terrain. There was not another soul in sight and there was only a thin sliver of moon hanging in the sky. An outlaw’s moon, she mused as she scanned her surroundings. There was barely enough light to lead the way back to town.

When Roz pivoted around she was surprised to note that one of the bodies was drifting gradually toward shore. Roz sidestepped down the incline to take a closer look.

Suddenly the man burst from the water like the Loch Ness Monster rising from the deep. Roz was so startled that she stumbled backward and tripped over the trailing hem of her gown. Icy fear paralyzed her when the man lunged toward her and snaked his hand around her ankle to jerk her roughly toward him.

Roz opened her mouth to scream bloody murder, but a wet hand clamped over the lower portion of her face. Six foot two inches and two hundred some-odd pounds of hard muscle surged over her, flattening her like a flounder, forcing her breath from her chest in a whoosh. Roz froze in terror when she felt the prick of the knife that appeared, as if by magic, in his free hand. The sharp blade pressed perilously against her throat. Roz had no doubt whatsoever that she had come face-to-face with Albert Thompson’s vicious killer—and quite likely her own.

Dear Lord! What irony that she had waited to announce her independence on the day of her death, she thought. She would never have the opportunity to launch her career as a renowned journalist. She was going to die a horrible death—right here in the grass and weeds that lined the river. Her mutilated body wouldn’t be discovered until long after this ruthless murderer escaped.

Don’t make a sound, or else… the outlaw snarled at her.

The ominous threat echoed in her head like a death toll. Roz was afraid to struggle for release for fear it would be the last thing she ever did.

She swallowed with a strangled gulp when the man’s shadowy face, surrounded by long wet hair, full beard and mustache loomed over hers. Blood from the superficial wound on his scalp dribbled onto her neck.

It could be her blood that was spilled if she angered this criminal, she reminded herself bleakly.

Now we’re going to get up, slow and easy, he growled at her. Then we’re going to fetch your horse and get the hell out of here—pronto.

When he moved his hand away from her mouth, she choked out, You’ll have a better chance of escaping alone. I’ll only slow you down, and kidnapping me will only make matters worse.

He muttered what she was sure was a foul oath in Spanish as he hurriedly levered her into a sitting position beside him. You’re coming with me for your own good, he said on a ragged breath.

Her own good? Roz gaped incredulously at him. Obviously this murdering criminal was as crazy as he was vicious. How could being abducted possibly be a good thing for her?

You’re also going to patch me up when we find a safe place to hide, he added as he snaked his arm around her waist.

Roz blinked, bemused by his comment. This place seemed safe enough to her. The outlaw had obviously shot his look-alike and there was no one else around to pounce on him. The man was mentally unstable and suffering from paranoia, she decided.

When he hoisted her to her feet she noticed the bloody wound on his thigh. She felt him hobbling unevenly on his injured leg while he leaned heavily against her to approach her horse. That explained the three shots she’d heard, Roz mused as she struggled to gather her scattered wits. Obviously, this outlaw was a better shot than his unfortunate look-alike—who was floating lifelessly down the river, destined for a watery grave.

Roz glanced over her shoulder to note the other man had sunk completely out of sight. No doubt, the undercurrent was carrying him far from the scene of the deadly duel.

Roz chastised herself for haring off after her confrontation with her father. Her need to clear out had led her straight into disaster. At the moment, the prospect of marrying the stuffy Winchester Chapman the Third or the dull and uninspiring Lieutenant John Harper sounded a hundred times better than ending up as another victim of this murderer’s merciless killing spree.

When the outlaw stopped abruptly to brace himself against the supporting beam of the bridge, Roz accidentally collided with him. He was as solid as the beam, though obviously a bit unsteady because of his wounds. She didn’t waste time feeling sorry for the scoundrel, however. He had killed her best friend’s father, murdered his look-alike and he obviously planned to kill her when she no longer served his purpose. Roz predicted she would only remain alive long enough to treat his wounds—and then would be disposed of.

The abysmal thought sent another blast of fear coursing through her.

Knowing her hours were numbered, she vowed to devise a method of escape. Until then, she would deceive this desperado into thinking she posed no threat to him.

Climb aboard. And no funny business, lady, he muttered as he limped toward the horse.

She pulled up the hem of her skirt and stuffed her foot in the stirrup. She squawked in offended dignity when the outlaw planted his hand on her derriere to boost her hurriedly into the saddle.

"That was not necessary, she said, scowling as she leaned forward to untie the reins. I can mount up by myself."

Not fast enough to suit me, you can’t came the gruff voice beside her. We’ve got to get the hell out of here.

Roz stiffened in alarm when the fugitive swung up behind her and his damp, muscular body practically surrounded her. His masculine thighs flanked her hips. His broad chest was plastered against her back and his powerful arms closed around her waist as he took control of the reins.

When his knife blade sliced into her petticoat Roz instinctively opened her mouth to shriek in terror, but his free hand clamped over her mouth before she could utter a sound.

Keep quiet, he growled against her ear. Tie that piece of fabric around my thigh to stop the bleeding.

Hands shaking, pulse pounding like a tom-tom, she fashioned a makeshift tourniquet from the strip of lacy cloth and wrapped it tightly around his injured left thigh. Her nerves already standing on end, Roz practically leaped out of her skin when the outlaw let loose with a howl—that was reminiscent of a coyote—so close to her ear. She heard the clatter of hooves on the bridge above her as the outlaw nudged her horse forward, following the meandering path of the river.

Several minutes of silence passed before Roz heard the muffled hoofbeats approaching from the rear. She glanced around the outlaw’s broad shoulders to see the dark silhouette of a horse, laden down with supplies, following in their wake. Apparently the coyote howl was the signal for the desperado’s well-trained steed to come to heel.

Roz hoped the hombre would slide over to his own horse and grant her breathing space—and the chance to make a fast getaway—but he stayed put and kept his left arm clamped around her waist, refusing to let her leap to freedom.

What’s your name, lady? he asked a mile later.

There was no way Roz was going to identify herself, just in case the scoundrel decided to hold her for ransom and extort money from her father. Mary Smith, she lied.

She felt a chuckle rumbling in his massive chest. "Right. Well, I’ll say one thing for you, Mary Smith, you’ve got a brain in your head and you know how and when to use it. I wasn’t sure your kind did."

My kind? Roz muttered, offended. "And what kind are you referring to?" No doubt, this hombre considered women as incapable and useless as the rest of his kind.

Females, he replied. Most white women can’t fight their way out of a feed sack and are prone to tears. They usually faint at the first sign of trouble.

Roz jerked up her chin, stiffened her spine and said, I do not faint. I have never fainted in my life.

"Good for you, Mary Smith. The last thing I